I'll seek thee in ITALIA's bow'rs, Where supine on beds of flow'rsMelody's soul-touching throngStrike the soft lute or trill the melting song: Where blithe FANCY, queen of pleasure,Pours each rich luxuriant treasure. For thee I'll climb the breezy hill, While the balmy dews distill Odours from the budding thorn, Drop'd from the lust'rous lids of morn; Who, starting from her shad'wy bed, Binds her gold fillet round the mountain's head.

O, mem'ry! busy barb'rous foe, At thy fell touch I wake to woe: Alas! the flatt'ring dream is o'er, From thee the bright illusions fly, Thou bidst the glitt'ring phantoms die, And hope, and youth, and fancy, charm no more.

No more for me the tip-toe SPRINGDrops flowrets from her infant wing; For me in vain the wild thymes bloomThro' the forest flings perfume; In vain I climb th'embroider'd hill To breathe the clear autumnal air; In vain I quaff the lucid rill Since jocund HEALTH delights not thereTo greet my heart:­no more I view, With sparkling eye, the silv'ry dew Sprinkling May's tears upon the folded rose, As low it droops its young and blushing head, Press'd by grey twilight to its mossy bed: No more I lave amidst the tide, Or bound along the tufted grove, Or o'er enamel'd meadows rove, Where, on Zephyr's pinions, glideSalubrious airs that waft the nymph repose.

Lightly o'er the yellow heathSteals thy soft and fragrant breath,Breath inhal'd from musky flow'rsNewly bath'd in perfum'd show'rs. See the rosy-finger'd mornOpes her bright refulgent eye, Hills and valleys to adorn, While from her burning glance the scatter'd vapours fly.

O HEALTH, celestial Nymph! without thy aidCreation sickens in oblivions shade: Along the drear and solitary gloomWe steal on thorny footsteps to the tomb; Youth, age, wealth, poverty alike agree To live is anguish, when depriv'd of Thee. To THEE indulgent Heav'n benignly gaveThe touch to heal, the extacy to save. The balmy incense of thy fost'ring breathWafts the wan victim from the fangs of Death, Robs the grim Tyrant of his trembling prize, Cheers the faint soul, and lifts it to the skies.

Let not the gentle rose thy bounty drest To meet the rising son with od'rous breast, Which glow'd with artless tints at noon-tide hour, And shed soft tears upon each drooping flower, With with'ring anguish mourn the parting Day, Shrink to the Earth, and sorrowing fade away.